I had started noticing things recently. The second phone charger in our bedroom that Daniel insisted was a backup. The way he locked his desk drawer when I came home early last month. The strain in his voice whenever he took calls out in the garage. But I kept dismissing those thoughts. We had been married eight years. We had a daughter. We had a mortgage. People got overwhelmed by work.
The mansion appeared as we turned onto the street.
I actually had to stop the car for a second just to stare at it.
Massive white columns towered in front like something from a movie set. Valets in crisp uniforms waited by the entrance, already moving toward arriving cars. The backyard glowed with hanging lights that probably cost more than our monthly payment on the car. A string quartet played beside an infinity pool that looked like it disappeared straight into the evening sky.
Daniel inhaled slowly.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he said, squeezing my hand.
I was wearing a dress I had bought on clearance three months earlier. It was simple and navy blue. Standing in front of that mansion, I suddenly felt as though I were dressed in cardboard.
“Thank you,” I said anyway.
He kissed my cheek quickly, almost mechanically, like he was checking off another task.
Then he stepped out and walked straight toward Richard before I even had time to unbuckle May from her seat.
I convinced myself the discomfort twisting in my stomach was only nerves about looking underdressed. I had no idea our four-year-old was about to say something that would destroy everything.
